Cliffs of Dover Aren't White to a Malcontent
by gevenni
Summary: Another "what happens after the book" fic. Jack's 17/18, and checked in the Psychiatric ward of a sanatorium. He spends his nights outside, though – and here's what he thinks.


Seems like Jack Merridew gets more and more fics as the days roll by. Can't hurt to contribute to that, can it? I've read somewhere that the antagonists are often the most well-written characters, and it certainly seems true for _Lord of the Flies_ by William Golding. Though I must say I've always had a weakness for young, charismatic English villains ... Er, nevermind that.

I wrote this fic mainly as a response to the other Merridew fics I've seen here. (I ought to show them to my friends ... see, I'm not insane for liking the bad guy.) They were great, absolutely, but they were an insight into a different view of the character from mine. Mostly they are sympathetic tellings of his story, which quite conflicted with my view of the boy. I've always viewed him as a naturally very rugged character, very out of touch with his feelings, explosive though they may be. Also not too accquainted with deep introspection or looking into the past – he'd probably view that as a sissy thing, in my opinion. All he wants to do is well, do, and then think of what he'll do next. A very 'action' kind of guy. I've tried to convey this in the internal monologue I've written.

This is set in Jack's 17th to 18th year. The World War II British evacuation of children overseas aimed to land them in either the Commonwealth dominions such as South Africa or New Zealand, or with American families. The future I've envisaged for our precocious Chief is in the Psychiatric ward of an American sanatorium, after the truth was (would have been) dug out by the naval officers on that ship in the last chapter. I have to thank Neko-chan, the author of Lord of the Flies: The Unknown Chapter?? (hope she reads this acknowledgement) for her idea of putting the boys into an insane asylum, though my version is slightly different.

It's a very short piece, for that long intro. But still, enjoy, will you?

Disclaimer: LOTF and Jack Merridew all belong to William Golding, not me. (darn!)

  
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**Cliffs of Dover Aren't White to a Malcontent**

Jack sat simmering in the depths of a fake leather couch in the usual bar. His friends had run off with his lighter, and he didn't have a spare. He had chased them five blocks down. But they had grown used to him, become too fast, too tricky. You could only smoke and get drunk here. He was too full from dinner to try the second; and apart from this place he could only go home. Nowhere else worth going - he had checked his options.

A fortnight and two more days here. Then he would go back to England. The war was over, hurrah. He would wait his turn patiently, until all the sane young British children had had their turn being shipped across the Atlantic. There were still lots more at last count, eager to get home; and American households eager to see them off. The last priority, he was, with his sanatorium mates. 

He licked his dry, restless lips. It made him glad to be last priority. He dreaded the sight of the white cliffs of Dover. He wanted to be back in old England, yes. But he didn't want the questions.

He wanted to – he didn't know, pay someone, or something – as if he had the money! to tell everyone back home that he was dead. Then he could return to another corner of the Isles from where he came from, and nobody would know. He'd get someone to tell them another patient had broken loose, then what? Jack wanted to die some way people would remember. Jack Merridew would not die mundanely. Even in a fake death.

"Tell them, tell them a riot of us mauled me alive, why not?" he muttered sarcastically.

He realised he was holding his unlit cigarette in his mouth as he talked. He whipped it out in irritation. His dammed friends. Stepping over him. He was growing soft.

Shit. They did do something to you in that sanatorium.

He ran a hand through his vivid standard-issue crew cut and rationalised to himself. Four years was a long time. Anything could influence you with four years.

Once he saw his friends he would like to give them such a yelling. Then they would beat him up. Perhaps it wasn't such a wise choice after all – he would see what he felt like. He looked downwards and circled his forearm with his thumb and third finger. Fuck. Skinny as always. If he was stronger he could give them more of a fight. Restlessly he shifted his position in the couch. In the normal world he was strong enough, he was insane enough. But back home everyone was crazy. No advantage.

Jack gave a sudden, convulsive giggle. Gramatically you could fit England into that too, he thought, instead of the sanatorium. You could fit anything. If he chose –

"Hey, Mac. Need a light?"

Jack looked up. Someone, looking like a right tramp, was waving a lit lighter in front of his eyes.

"Go on, you're burning my fuel here."

Jack sat up and leant forward, cigarette between his lips, and lit it. He took a long drag, and let it out slowly.

"Thanks," he told the drifter. He could feel the blood rushing back to his head.

The drifter nodded, pocketed the lighter and left without further word. Jack slumped back into the couch. At least now he was more content.

___ 


End file.
